The Accounting
The hills hold echoes of children at play,
their lingering laughter cupped by the leaves;
sometimes on still evenings I hear their chime,
a whisper of pipes caressing the trees.
In cool shaded dales thick carpets of moss
remember child footsteps of dreams
left by bare feet light as the mists
that float softly above the clear mountain streams.
What if, while walking, I should encounter
my long grown child-self face to face;
how will I answer her questioning gaze,
give account for my run of life's race?
Copyright, April 18, 2017, Faye Lanham Gibson
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
